Crocodile Tears
by DoctorDo
Summary: The Rebirth one-shot. Takes place during chapter 4 of The Rebirth, Violent Demonstration. During the Central Spaceport Siege, Skullsmasher finds himself inside a threatened comedy club with his audience. This fic details what happens when a former Warrior is attacked by his active counterparts. The Entireverse continuity. Contains mild horror.


**Author's Note:** I made another one-shot! This one's about . . . well, I'm sure you read the description. Anyways, this follows a character who doesn't get much time to shine - Skullsmasher! I know he was originally called Skullcruncher, but truth be told, I much prefer Skullsmasher. I feel a toy review blogger (whose name escapes me at this time) described it best: A robot can't really crunch skulls - a croc can, but most robots can't. Now, Skull _smashing?_ Both modes are perfectly capable of _that!_

Tirade aside, this fic will prove why you should never smile at a crocodile. Mild horror warning - if you picture the _scene_ (you'll know it when you read it) as involving humans, it's a lot more effective. But as it stands, I am a writer what writes about Transformers, so it shouldn't be too bad unless you're easily frightened.

Companion piece over at DeviantArt is Decepticon Skullsmasher. Please enjoy the prose.

-The Doctor (Do)

* * *

"Ladies and gentlebots, mechs and femmes, please put your hands together for Skullsmasher of Petrex - The Self-Hating Swamp Warrior!" the announcer, a diminutive mech by the name of Supersonic, shouted energetically.

Skullsmasher strolled out from stage right to thunderous applause. The lights in the comedy club felt warm on his face in addition to the comfortable air of the Iaconian morning. He remembered the first time he had made it to Iacon with his act, how rapturous he had been at making the big time, and how slagging hard it had been to get those uptight Iaconians to start laughing. But once he had done it, the mostly-Autobot crowd had never stopped. They'd ask him back time after time, and more than once he had spotted the heavy hitters of the planetary government - Optimus Prime, Soundwave, and a bare glimpse of Goldfire one particularly packed night. Skullsmasher figured he'd done pretty well in life for a former Decepticon and loved every second of the jokes he'd throw to the hungry audience.

He looked out into the crowd, smiling a quirky grin that he managed to pull off even with his pointed Beastformer dental plates. A singularly attractive femme in the front row just about melted into her seat when he shot her a wink.

Approaching the microphone stand, he paused, removing the device from its mount and flipping it end-over-end in a practiced movement and catching it without looking. The applause crescendoed to a peak then fell off, the auditorium quieting.

"Thanks, folks. Good ta be here," he began. "I'm the Self-Hatin' Decepticon, as ya already know, an' I wanna talk about . . . birth, if that's okay with y'all."

"So, I was forged, right? How many people here was forged? 'Bout half'a y'all? A'ight, nice. Now, as I'm sure ya know, fo'gin' is th' act a' bringin' a sparkling up through a family, takin' 'im ta th' doc fo' his new frames, an' buildin' a long-term relationship wit' a close cluster'a lovin' folk." He threw up his arms. "I'm a walkin' dictionary, folks, take it from me. Anyways, so I been thinkin' 'bout my creation, an' fo' th' life'a me, I just cain't figure it out. Jus' pitcha it, a pair o' new, proud parents, lookin' down a' their sparkling. 'Is optics 'a filled wit' innocence, 'e's chirpin' happily . . . An' then th' Opi says, wit' a clear conscience, 'What an adorable lil' thang. Let's name 'im **Skullsmasher** ," he said, standing up straight as a ramrod at the last word. The audience laughed, and Skullsmasher continued.

"Good Primus, y'all. A' least Daddy-O didn't name me Killmaster o' Ultramegadeath o' somethin'." The laughter grew, and Skullsmasher smiled a bit himself. "Ya gotta wonder, wha' was 'is second choices? Destructron? Bloodbath? 'Ay, Bloodbath, be nice ta yo' sistah!'"

He allowed the peal of mirth to die down a bit before he resumed his act. He took a swig of ultra-low-grade from his hip flask, then cleared his throat.

"Yeah . . . Our culture's pretty messed up. I dunno why, mayhap I'm missin' somethin', but from what I seen, we got some improv'ment ta do. Anyways. Let's talk 'bout Terrans fo' a minute. Dem Terrans got the smallest lil'-"

Suddenly, a great roaring sound shattered all the glass in the auditorium. Alkaline beverages flew from their containers as they shattered, spraying the clubgoers with fluid and little bits of synthoplasma. Skullsmasher's optics rattled in his cranial unit as he dialed his audios down to zero. Even so, he was driven to his knees and a pervasive ringing filled his head as tolerance alarms blared in clusters. He clapped his hands to his auditories, trying to block out the ringing even further.

When he withdrew his hands after a few astroseconds, they were covered in his own Energon.

 _Oh, slag._

Involuntarily, he drew a sharp, panicked vent as he pulled a cleaning rag out of subspace, frantically wiped them off with his optics shuttered, and threw the rag back.

He stood up shakily, grinding his teeth in worry, and looked out into the crowd. Though they were splashed with the remnants of their various beverages, they were in much the same condition he was in, right down to the glowing purple Energon leaking out of their audios . . .

Skullsmasher turned smartly toward the back of the stage, taking several deep cycles of Engex-tinged air to cool and help repair his taxed internals. With an unpleasant shock, he heard gunfire echoing just outside the club as his auditory systems returned and deduced something that did not bode well for the patrons of the club or himself. Without turning around, he pitched his voice to make himself heard and addressed the crowd.

"Folks, somethin's happ'ning, an' judgin' by that weapons fire ou'side, it ain't pretty. I'm no Strategist, but I'd say we unda siege as of now. How many of y'all got advanced weapons trainin'?"

He risked a glance at the crowd out of the corner of his optic and was pleased to see at least half of them had their hands in the air.

"Excellent," Skullsmasher said, drawing his old sawed-off ray shotgun. Its pump slid back as easily as it ever had even covered in muck and slime in the slag swamps and Toxic Waste Bog of Cybertron, and later, in the cypress swamps of Louisiana and the rural marshes of Europe and North America. He reached into his subspace a final time and withdrew a fistful of shells, which he dropped into the shotgun with an all-too-familiar ease. Out of habit, he alternated normal shells and softening rays as he loaded it, though he doubted he would use the latter for anything other than shooting.

The shotgun reached its maximum load, so Skullsmasher put the remaining five into his on-person holding compartment and racked the first round into the chamber with a meaty **CHK**.

A sad smile played across his faceplates as he looked out at the solemn crowd, all preparing their various weapons. The sparklings in the crowd were already being placed in their carriers' holds as their creators readied defenses. "I'm so sorry y'all have to experience this again. Let's pray tha' Primus'll be with us."

He tried his hardest to ignore the tiny puddles of Energon dotting the floor. "Bots with th' most endurance, follow me. We gonna barricade the main entrance. Evr'yone else, stay here an' set up a defensive perimeter, then get outta here fast as ya can. Femmes wit' sparklings first, please. C'mon."

Everyone in the auditorium broke, some transforming to cover more ground. Skullsmasher ran along with the other heavily-armored mechs and femmes through the posh hallway, trying to get to the front portal before those outside did.

As they entered the club's lobby, a smaller femme slid nimbly over the refreshment counter, interfacing quickly with the portal control and locking them down. Metal shutters began to slide down over the double-wide doors as they watched.

Those who were formerly demolitions specialists tore up the metal panels, bringing the sheets to any windows or openings and nailing them into place. Skullsmasher himself helped two other Warrior classes with a large seating unit, ripping its fixtures out of the floor and jamming it roughly in the tiny entryway left by the time the shutters had closed.

"Is that all'a them openings?" he shouted, out of breath.

"I think so. Let's move, follow the others out the back-SHEEAGH!" a larger mech said as his cranial unit exploded, peppering those gathered with metal shavings and various fluids. Behind him, the only window remaining unblocked shattered and a tall Decepticon Rebel entered, reloading a Marksman's Rifle. He was quickly followed by a lupinoid Beastformer with a white greatsword and a deep blue Rebel, so blue he was nearly black.

Without words, the lupinoid held up a photon pistol, dropping two Autobots in the time it took them to raise their weapons. The femme behind the counter shot the Rebel with her own pistol three times, causing Energon to spurt from his wounds. Instead of crying out in pain, however, the Beastformer just cackled madly, crossing the room in a flash and beheading the poor femme even as his plating was becoming soaked with his own Energon.

As for Skullsmasher, he just stood there in shock, revulsion building within him, while the five other Autobots were cut down by the deep blue mech, who was obviously some sort of martial artist.

 _This ain't happening. Not again,_ he thought to himself. It seemed like he was trapped in a bubble, cut off from the world. He thought of his sparkmate back in Petrex, how worried she must be. After everything he had gone through, all the rehab, all the mnemosurgeons, they were all for naught, and it was happening once more.

His vision cleared momentarily and he saw the tan Rebel standing imperiously above him. Skullsmasher was an enormous mech by Autobot standards, towering over most people. But what this Rebel lacked in bulk, he made up for in height, at least a head taller than him.

The Rebel pulled the shellshocked Skullsmasher close, and whispered into his damaged auditory receptors, "Next time, choose your allies more wisely, brother."

With that, the Rebel stuck his long digits inside a chink in Skullsmasher's neck armor and bent a crucial wire, sending the Self-Hating Swamp Warrior into stygian blackness.

* * *

He came to about a half vorn later, his fuel tank filled with agonizing emptiness. Skullsmasher rolled over on his back, groaning in pain. Data readings flitted across his HUD almost as fast as he could dismiss them.

FUEL TANK LEVELS DANGEROUSLY LOW. SEEK NOURISHMENT IMMEDIATELY.

Dismissing the reading with passion, he sat up, rubbing his faceplates vigorously. He ground his denta out of nerves, producing a loud metal-on-metal screeching noise that carried eerily through the comedy club. He could hear intense gunfire in the distance. Whatever this scrapfest had started out as, it was now a full-fledged battle. Wise words from the Neutral rehabilitation officer, Savior, ran through his head.

"It is your responsibility as a citizen to protect Cybertron and its inhabitants if you see violence, regardless of what faction is the aggressor. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Skullsmasher mumbled as he managed to stand. He knew his hands were now covered in dried Energon and oil, but he set everything he had to ignoring it.

FUEL TANK LEVELS DANGEROUSLY LOW. SEEK NOURISHMENT IMMEDIATELY.

A scream suddenly came from the auditorium, a scream of someone in an excess of terror and panic. All pain left Skullsmasher in an instant as his systems snapped back to survival mode.

"It is your responsibility as a citizen to protect Cybertron and its inhabitants."

Turning the corner, Skullsmasher saw that the sign reading AUDITORIUM was spattered with freshly-dried Energon.

FUEL TANK LEVELS DANGEROUSLY LOW. SEEK NOURISHMENT IMMEDIATELY.

"NO!" he shouted to himself. Primus, it felt like a black hole had opened in his fuel tank. His shotgun came into existence, pulled from his subspace as he kicked open the portal leading into the auditorium.

There, the attractive young femme was being stretched out on a circular drinks table, screaming her vocal chords out, by two Decepticon Rebels. Their leader, a bloodred mech with light-cycle kibble, was approaching her, holding an Energon-covered combat knife. Bodies of the Autobots Skullsmasher had tasked with setting up a perimeter were piled at his feet, their spark-chambers crushed in with a heavy melee weapon - probably the warhammer one of the mechs was holding, some small rational part of Skullsmasher thought.

FUEL TANK LEVELS DANGEROUSLY LOW. SEEK NOURISHMENT IMMEDIATELY.

"We have a meeting to attend, miss, so I do hope you won't mind too terribly if we speed this along. Hold her down, boys."

The screaming peaked to a crescendo as the bloodred mech shifted his grip on the knife, holding it above his head.

"Leave her alone!" Skullsmasher howled, grinding his denta as hard as he could. He fired six rounds into the bulky Decepticon holding the femme's legs, causing him to stumble to the ground, perforated like a block of beryllium bologna. As he fell, the femme kicked sideways, grabbing the warhammer-wielding mech in a headlock. Skullsmasher's shotgun clicked, its charges spent, so the Swamp Warrior grabbed it by the shortened barrel and brought the stock swinging into the bloodred knife nut's head with a satisfying _crack._ Slamming the gun onto the drink table, Skullsmasher raised his fist, still grinding his denta, and transformed it partially into an alloygator's claw. With a well-aimed strike, Skullsmasher's claw cleaved through the Decepticon's vulnerable midsection, spilling all of his internal machinery onto the ground. The femme dropped him as he writhed in his death throes.

"Thank you so much, Skullsmasher! I thought they were going to - are you all right?"

Skullsmasher collapsed, his fuel tank on the verge of cracking from emptiness.

Primus, he was so hungry. It felt like there was nothing inside his body at all, that his entire existence was just complete and total hollowness. It was maddening, almost, and he remembered what one in a long line of mnemosurgeons had told him.

" _Every time you get a craving, just think of yourself right after a giant meal. Stuffed to bursting, if you need it bad enough."_

The doctor had offered him medications, needles, anything to curb Skullsmasher's need to consume fuel. They had worked, along with all the tips he had been given, long enough to make him think his disorder was entirely in control. The former Decepticon Warrior had even settled down, getting a beautiful sparkmate and a real nice residence in Petrex. Bonesaw and he hadn't bonded just yet, but plans were in place for a ceremony in Iacon's Grand Cathedral itself.

What would Bonesaw say? Because this _was_ about to happen, and there was nothing Skullsmasher would be able to do to stop it. Would she even let him into the house? His first thought was _Of course. She loves me._

But as his starved processor raced, his next thought was far less optimistic. Who would willingly stay with a monster like him?

Skullsmasher screamed as a tremor racked his body, sending his torso up in an arc. His voracious tank groaned as the metal contracted, making a very audible noise that could only be described as a feral growl. With the last of his senses, he grabbed the frightened femme by the shoulders.

"Get outta here now, lady. For your own good." he managed to grind out through his whirring denta. He shoved her away, barely able to watch her leave through a haze of hunger and pain.

As Skullsmasher writhed among the dead bodies, his processor entered a state that was very near deactivation, and his willpower faded like the epicenter of an explosion. Something broke inside of him, and it was as if he was no longer in control of his own body. A distinct scent pervaded the air, causing him to sniff deeply. It was a warm, coppery scent, like a freshly-cooked ring of Cesium salami or a new oilcake, piping hot from the industrial smelter. Rising to his hands and knees, he pinpointed the source of the smell, which was emanating from the still-sparking pile of burnt-out machinery on the ground.

"No! No! Primus, please no! Make this stop!" he pleaded internally, not even in control of his own voice, but apparently, his god wasn't listening that day. The Self-Hating Swamp Warrior was forced to watch in muted horror as he first approached the steaming pile of offal, then began scarfing the Decepticon's entrails down as if they were Energon goodies. When he was done, he ripped the unfortunate Rebel apart lengthwise, plunging his head into the visceral innards and consuming everything but his armor plating. Though he was unspeakably revolted by this horrid act, he found that a twisted - and disturbingly large - part of him enjoyed it.

The Rebel was now nothing more than a pile of armor and a frame. Skullsmasher had no response for a while, staring in revulsion at his handiwork.

"What've I done ta deserve this?" he mumbled once he regained control of his processor. At first, it was soft and quiet, but then quickly escalated to frenzied shouting at the cruel heavens. "WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS?"

His armor rang hollowly as Skullsmasher struck the oil-stained club floor over and over again, sobbing bitterly with each punctuated pound.

Worse still, the evil hunger was still inside of him, gnawing like the monster he had become again.

FUEL TANK LEVELS DANGEROUSLY LOW. SEEK NOURISHMENT IMMEDIATELY.

He noticed, seemingly for the first time, the bodies behind him. A spotlight gleamed off of the body of an elderly Tanker class, his chest crushed in and his spark faded.

"Why not? I ain't got nothin' else ta live for anymore," Skullsmasher sniffed, an image of his sparkmate crossing his mind for the last time. He crossed over to the elderly Autobot, still on his hands and knees, pried the remaining plating off, and dug in.

The Tanker tasted weak and dry, but at that point, Skullsmasher could have eaten anything and not cared in the slightest, so he continued. It felt so good to have something in his tank, he had completely devoured the Autobot in less than a breem and moved on to the next without a pause. This one tasted worse and lacked any sort of flavor, but he didn't care in the least. He cracked the Ghost class's arm off, biting savagely into the alloy and dynametal and swallowing great chunks of the Autobot with fervor.

At some point, Skullsmasher found that he had unknowingly transformed into his alloygator form. Noticing this, he let out a chuckle of elation and began making wide sweeps with his gaping mouth wide open, effortlessly consuming five times the amount of Autobot that he had been.

* * *

Martyr onlined rather painfully, his entire cranial unit hurting.

Groaning, he reached to the back of his head, tenderly feeling for damage. His digits dipped in a dent and came away wet.

Apparently, that hick comedian had hit him hard enough to break his helm and cause a low-scale cranium breach. It was vital that Martyr leave the comedy club and seek medical attention ASAP.

He onlined his optics as gently as he could and immediately saw a scene so horrible he wished to cleanse it from his mind. There, not two mechanometers away, sat a monster, gobbling down Autobot carcasses with reckless abandon. Despite himself, Martyr made a noise of disgust, then wished he hadn't as soon as it left his vocal chords. The monster's head turned towards him, glistening with internal fluids with an evil gleam in its red optics.

Like something out of a horror holovid, the beast dragged itself over to Martyr and transformed into that insufferable comedian that had hit him. A sardonic grin hung on Skullsmasher's face as he planted one giant arm on Martyr's chest, forcing him back to the ground.

"Please . . . I can give you anything! I have contacts in high places! Just leave me alone and I'll get you whatever you want, I swear!"

"Naw, naw, guv'na. You vindicated that line o' dialog when you an' your buddies was 'bout ta kill that pretty little femme," Skullsmasher rumbled, his basso voice causing Martyr to tremble in fear.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! You're right, it was terrible of us, she was a Cybertronian too, we were just trying to have some fun with this riot! I'm sorry!"

The cannibal ground his teeth, yielding an awful metal-on-metal sound that set Martyr's entire neural cluster on edge. "Tha' so? Jus' tryin' ta have fun, aint'cha? I can respect tha'. Matter o' fact, now that'cha mention it, there is somethin' you can get fer me."

"Anything! Anything at all!"

Skullsmasher smiled again, leaning in close. Martyr could see scraps of dynametal and metal shavings wedged between the jags in his dental plates, and he could smell the stench of death in every vent of hot air that the comedian expelled. "Lunch."

The Rebel's spark quickened. "No. Please, no. I can get you anything but that."

"Calm down, calm down now. Don't you worry. I'll take small bites. My pappy raised me right. I always make sure ta chew twenty times 'fore I swallow."

A sharp cutting sensation pierced Martyr's neck strut, and he clapped a hand to the new bite in his flesh with a yelp. He tried to struggle free, but Skullsmasher just pressed down harder as he came in for another bite.

The two bites stung as they leaked Energon over Martyr's plating and he attempted to reach his photon pistol, only to find it was pinned underneath his leg. He reached out for his subspace, for _anything_ that would save him, but the cannibal simply grabbed his arm with his free hand, stretching it out and following up with three increasingly large chomps out of the arm.

"Stop! STOP!" Martyr cried. Though he punched Skullsmasher in the side with his good arm relentlessly, the blows just rang dully off of the Swamp Warrior's dense armor.

Abandoning all pretense of Decepticon pride, Martyr screamed for help as loudly as he could, his once-soft voice ringing off the walls of the comedy club right up until Skullsmasher ate his voice box right out of his throat. But no one came to his rescue.

* * *

When Skullsmasher was finally done in the comedy club, all of the dead were reduced to nothing more than armor and the remains of what could have once been frames at some point. Any Energon or oil stains in the club had been licked clean and spotless, save those drenching the Self-Hating Swamp Warrior himself as he stepped out of the building, blinking frequently in the pale light of the Iacon afternoon. The entire process had taken less than a vorn in all, and he was still feeling a bit peckish.

Gunfire was still echoing in the distance, though now it seemed much closer. If Skullsmasher squinted, he could see bodies lying in the streets, just waiting to be devoured.

He summoned his ray shotgun, loading it with six shells in a matter of astroseconds, and began moving in the general direction of the weapons fire.

Very few were around to see Skullsmasher's charge, as most were either fleeing the battle or elsewhere, helping the defense efforts or protecting their families inside their various dwellings. Those few that did see him turned away, disgusted by the sheen of bodily fluids covering his brutish frame. None of these Iaconian citizens, in fact, noticed the single golden tear of optical solvent that traced down his oil-spattered face, a memory of a successful life that never came to be.

FIN

* * *

Hope you enjoyed!

This isn't the end of Skullsmasher's story, by the way. To see more of him, make sure to read The Rebirth! He'll become bonded to a cruel businessman, fight the very people he was told to protect, and satisfy his uncontrollable cravings - many times over! Remember to leave those reviews on both the art and the prose ~ because I can't fix if YOU don't tell me what's wrong with my work! Thank you for reading.

-The Doctor (Do)


End file.
